Love's Late Arrival (Sweet Grove Romance Book 1; First Street Church #8)

by Sharon Hughson

  Cool air and the aroma of home cooking wafted out when Kyanna opened the door. A high school student with an apron tied over her black slacks and short-sleeved shirt greeted them, menus in hand.

  “We’re here for the Bible study.” Kyanna smiled, trying to retrieve the girl’s name from her memory.

  “Nice to see you, Peggy.” Norma’s happy demeanor had slipped into place during the short drive.

  “Mrs. Wells and Miss Patchett.” Peggy nodded to each of them. “I’ll take you to Mrs. Olson’s reserved table.”

  They chatted while glancing over the menu. An older woman brought waters and more silverware for the table. Norma greeted her and asked about her herb garden. Kyanna held back a grin as she considered the topics of conversation in rural towns.

  Before long, Tabitha and three other “working women” joined the table, bringing a cacophony of perfumes and cackles of conversation. Kyanna relaxed into the vinyl-covered booth, tossing out a few comments but mostly enjoying the sound of friendly conversation.

  After the delicious lunch, a short Bible discussion, and a trip to Norma’s house, Kyanna pulled up in front of her own rental cottage on Cyprus Street. She’d joked with her son about the streets named after trees in the lightly treed region, such a contrast to the evergreen forests of Washington.

  It was nearly time for their Sunday afternoon Skype appointment. At least he still wanted to talk every week. Sometimes he didn’t even need a recipe or money.

  Kyanna kicked her kitten-heeled pumps into the bottom of her closet. She hung up the skirt and tossed the blouse into the fine wash basket, then pulled on stretchy capris and an over-sized tank top. Summer clothes would have been retired in Olympia, but this was central Texas, and afternoon temperatures still crept into the nineties.

  Her bare feet slapped on the laminate flooring on her way into the kitchen. As she opened the refrigerator, she replayed the reaction at the diner when she’d tried to order unsweetened tea. The server’s eyebrows arched to the sky as she said, “Lady, this is Texas. There’s sweet tea or coke.” With a smile, Kyanna poured herself a glass of unsweetened—and apparently not Southern—tea and savored a long swallow.

  She pulled her laptop onto the bistro table in the breakfast nook, stretching her legs, propping her feet on the chair across from her. Work waited on the machine, and she’d dive into it when she finished talking to Derek.

  The text had barely been sent to her son before the incoming call tone sounded its alert. She clicked the Skype icon and adjusted her computer so her face was in the center of the inset screen.

  Derek’s brown hair blurred into focus. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her the open palm signal they’d used to start conversations since he was three years old.

  Her lips quirked as she returned the gesture, basking in the hot-cocoa warmth flooding her chest. As much as motherhood hadn’t been part of her plan, Derek was the best thing to ever come from her flesh.

  “Hey. How’s Texas?”

  “Sunny and hot.”

  Things blurred and crackles sounded through the speakers. When the picture returned, she glimpsed a set of bunk beds behind him—the dorm room she hadn’t been there to help set up.

  A knife twisted in her heart. Her brain chugged out a litany of reasonable excuses for her absence on move-in day. Was she becoming an absentee parent like her mother and father?

  “Tell me about your roommates.”

  He recited the qualities of the three boys sharing his dorm suite. His laughter washed away her self-condemnation. He was an adult, and he didn’t expect her to be there for every little thing.

  “How’s Sweet Grove High?”

  While he’d only been in the dorm a couple days, she’d been at her job for months. He knew the basics, so she updated him on the bullying prevention program and left out her worries that it might be a pebble tossed in a pond.

  “Oh, before I forget.” Derek scratched his ear and looked away from the screen. “Dad said to have you call your doctor.”

  Kyanna frowned. “Why?”

  Derek shrugged. “Guess the office called him twice. Said it was important for you to return the call right away.”

  Kyanna snagged her phone, opened her calendar app, and typed a reminder for 11:00 the next day. Since she’d kept her annual exam in June before moving, she had no idea what the doctor wanted. And if it had been so important, why hadn’t Adam called or texted about the message?

  She shrugged off her considerations and asked Derek about his class schedule. After a few minutes, a body stepped into view behind her son.

  “Gotta go. Gonna play soccer with the guys.”

  “Same time next week.”

  “You got it, Mom. Take care.”

  She leaned closer to the computer. “I love you.”

  Without missing a beat, he said, “Love you too. Bye.”

  The screen turned blue when he signed off, and she replayed their conversation while sipping more tea. He was growing into a responsible young man.

  Kyanna stretched her tight shoulders. Time to work. The usual buzz of anticipation was absent—nothing motivated her to click on a file and enter the realm of Sweet Grove High. Trying to dispel the emptiness, she opened a preset Pandora station and hummed along with a favorite tune.

  Monday duties held little appeal, but she had no one to convince her to shirk them for something fun.

  The realization dimmed the euphoria left by Derek’s call.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  After performing a few trunk twists, she dove into work, hoping to dispel the longing for companionship expanding inside her soul.

  6

  Steam from the bubbling pasta and simmering sauce mingled above the range. Roth closed his eyes, inhaling the hint of garlic that pervaded the moist air.

  “Salad’s ready.”

  For a change, Ariel didn’t sound grumpy or whiny. For now, Sunday evening dinner-making remained a way for them to interact on neutral ground.

  “Is the spaghetti ready?”

  She nudged his arm. Her head reached the top of his shoulder, making her an inch taller than her mother. The usual pang of longing that struck at the thought of Muriel remained absent.

  He pointed at the digital timer on the stove, which showed four minutes. “When that reaches zero, it’s done.”

  “Four minutes? It’s probably done now.”

  “Al dente pasta requires precision.” He cocked his head toward her and waggled his eyebrows.

  “Whatever.”

  That sounded more like the girl he’d been interacting with for the past year. And since Friday’s visit to the principal’s office, he’d heard “whatever” too many times to track.

  “Is the table set?”

  She huffed out an aggrieved sigh and sashayed away to put two place settings on the little table in the next room. He stirred the noodles, angling his body toward her.

  She’d pouted on the way to church, especially when he made her put a blouse over the skimpy camisole she donned with her too-tight skirt. The see-through blouse still didn’t work for him, but he’d let it go, remembering the counselor advising him to choose his battles wisely. No sense tossing dynamite on a fire.

  At First Street Church, a girl her age led Ariel across the children’s annex to join a large group of teenagers in a common area. A woman presiding over the group had waved to him, but he slunk into the back of the sanctuary.

  Not that he planned to worship God. Faith had been Muriel’s thing, and it hadn’t saved her from dying on the operating table.

  Upbeat songs dispelled his brooding. The pastor spoke in a moderate tone of voice, not stomping and hollering like many sermons he’d sat through with Muriel. He was there only physically, the pastor’s words rolling off him, enduring for Ariel because she needed to find a peer group that wouldn’t lead her into trouble.

  And Miss Kyanna Patchett seemed to think church was the place to do that.

&nbs
p; A few pews ahead of him, the principal appeared riveted to the pastor’s words. Without his bidding, his gaze drifted her way several times during the service, but he slipped out before the final prayer so he didn’t see her again.

  Church was okay, Ariel had told him. She recognized some kids from school, but she doubted they would talk to her on Monday. “They had their church faces on.”

  Her observation struck him as accurate but a little jaded for someone so young.

  The timer beeped. He turned off the heat and upended the noodles into a colander in the sink. Cool water rinsed away the excess starch.

  Lifting the lid on the skillet, he stirred the thick marinara sauce. At the savory scent of Italian sausage, his stomach spasmed with need. He didn’t cook like this often, and his body reminded him with a grumble.

  “Finally.” Ariel sniffed the air and carried the salad to the table.

  While she put the dressing in the dining area and poured drinks, Roth dished the pasta and sauce into serving bowls and slid the garlic toast on a plate. He carried the bowls while his daughter took control of the bread, helping herself to a gargantuan bite of the uppermost slice.

  Roth bit back a comment. He knew he should chide her for bad manners, but one look at her stick-like frame shouted her need for food. Why risk a tantrum that could result in him eating alone?

  After they’d filled their plates, Roth drizzled ranch dressing over his salad.

  “Want a little salad with your ranch?” Ariel’s teasing words echoed an old joke he shared with Muriel.

  Roth made an exaggerated move to dump more dressing over the lettuce, and Ariel snickered.

  “What was the teen service like?” Roth meticulously cut his spaghetti into squares.

  Ariel swallowed and licked away a speck of Italian dressing at the corner of her mouth.

  “There was a cute guy leading the music.”

  Roth’s blood pounded in his ears. A cute guy? He wasn’t ready to think about his daughter with a guy.

  He made a noise in his throat and took a large bite of salad to keep himself from saying the wrong thing.

  “He played the guitar and sang. His voice was amazing.” Ariel’s fork drooped to her plate, and she stared ahead with a glazed, dreamy look.

  A leaf choked him, so he sipped water to clear it.

  “They had a guitar and drums in the main service too.”

  “Really?” She chewed another bite and lifted her half-eaten Texas toast. “That’s different from Memaw and Pappy’s church.”

  Roth nodded. His wife’s parents attended a conservative church in Tulsa. What would they think of First Street Church?

  He shrugged the thought away. Any church had to be better than none, especially if it helped Ariel make the right friends.

  “Did you have a sermon?” The tang of sausage-laden marinara distracted him for a moment. It might be tomato paste, diced tomatoes, and a seasoning packet, but it tasted wonderful after a week of sandwiches and frozen entrees.

  “The youth pastor gave a talk.” Ariel wiped a napkin over her chin, smearing the sauce before abolishing it with a second swipe.

  A smile crept over his mouth, halting his chewing. She still swirled the noodles around her fork and sucked them in like a kid. How he wished for those simpler days.

  “And get this. She’s a woman.” Ariel’s eyes widened before she slurped another forkful of saucy noodles.

  Roth bit into his bread, savoring the buttery garlic exploding over his tongue while his mind digested her statement.

  “The youth pastor is a woman. That would fry Pappy’s mind for sure.”

  Roth choked on the food in his mouth. Watery eyes didn’t keep him from seeing his daughter’s grin.

  “I think I like this church.”

  Even if her positive reaction was only because she knew her grandparents wouldn’t like it, Roth wasn’t about to argue. The principal had steered them in the right direction.

  The vision of her sleek blonde hair and concerned blue eyes studying him over the evidence of his daughter’s transgressions flooded his mind. His heartbeat surged, and a strange dance rumbled in his chest.

  Her empathy struck him, and he couldn’t forget the spark he’d felt when they shook hands. No matter how attractive she was, he reminded himself he wasn’t on the market.

  His self-reprimand didn’t keep her from appearing in his dreams.

  7

  On Wednesday, Kyanna raced through her duties at school. After the final bell, she waited in the shade of the eaves as students flooded out to the parking lot, watching as Mr. McKale monitored the bus loading area at the front of the building. A hot breeze tickled her hair against her face.

  Many students waved or said goodbye as they passed. She was pleased to call the larger percentage of them by name. When Arthur Marones exited, his arm slung around Ariel’s shoulders, she bristled. A gust of wind flipped the girl’s strappy camisole. The neckline plunged lower, revealing more than cleavage. Earlier, she’d been wearing a black T-shirt with rips across the torso and back.

  “Later, Miz Ratched.” Arthur sneered while deliberately mispronouncing her name.

  Kyanna doubted he was intentionally calling her the cruel nurse from Kesey’s classic novel. The junior probably had no idea the name he used held a deeper insult.

  “Mr. Marones, if you could comply with the school rule regarding public displays of affection until you’ve left the property…”

  Kyanna stopped speaking because the boy flashed her a mischievous smirk and leaned over to plant a kiss on Ariel’s lips. The girl flinched and shrugged out from under his arm.

  “Don’t be a tease.” The boy’s tone had a hard edge, and he glared at Ariel.

  Kyanna gritted her teeth and balled her hands into fists as she watched the pair slide into an older model Honda that rode low to the ground. A few other students greeted her, diverting her attention. When she looked again, the car was gone.

  Her fingers relaxed. Even though Ariel had attended the youth service, she hadn’t replaced her attachment to the black-clad gang of miscreants. Kyanna tried not to pigeonhole students, but Arthur’s academic and behavioral record for the past two years offered proof enough of his true nature.

  Kyanna would have time to worry about Ariel’s friendship choices on the drive to Rosewood. The phone call to her doctor in Washington on Monday had necessitated a follow-up appointment for an ultrasound. Her family had no history of breast cancer, so the shadowy spot on the mammogram was probably nothing to worry about.

  On the thirty-minute drive, she admired sporadic orchards interspersed with flat stretches of farmland. Cross-fenced pastures dotted with cattle and country architecture offered visual pleasure while the stereo boomed out her daily scriptures. Several years ago, she’d started listening to the Bible on her commute, and it insured she “read” it at least five days per week.

  Unfortunately, the commute to Sweet Grove High took all of five minutes, so she’d been falling out of practice. If her weekly meetings with the church ladies taught her anything, it was that she didn’t have the same respect for scripture as the Texans.

  Her GPS program interrupted the reading with a command to turn in half a mile. Kyanna paused the audiobook and concentrated on maneuvering through increasing traffic on the city streets.

  With ten minutes to spare, she parked in a garage connected to the hospital. As she walked to the third-story entrance, she unfolded the paper where she’d jotted the location of the imaging lab when she’d scheduled the appointment.

  A few minutes later, she’d registered with the receptionist and sat on a padded chair in the waiting area. An older man in a wheelchair and his companion were the only other people in the narrow room. Before Kyanna could empty her personal email inbox, a young woman called her name.

  In a small exam room, she shed her shirt and bra and donned the hip-length garment—ties in the front—and folded her items neatly on the room’s lone chair. She double-check
ed that her colorful bra was tucked out of sight.

  She followed the same woman to a dark room with an exam table, counter, and the ultrasound machine. Kyanna had barely sat on the table before another young woman entered. Her curly hair swept up in a clip revealed a finely structured face with dark honey-colored skin. The woman’s brown gaze pierced her before she closed the door, casting the room into near darkness.

  “A follow up on a suspicious mammogram?” She was clicking on a computer.

  The wording made Kyanna’s stomach twist. “Routine, right?”

  The woman turned to stare at Kyanna, and the look on her face spoke volumes. Kyanna’s heart hammered against her nauseous gut.

  “That’s for your doctor to say.” But her expression answered Kyanna’s concerns.

  The tech, who introduced herself as Vicky, explained the procedure. “Lie back and relax.”

  Relaxation had flown with the confirmation that the ultrasound had life-altering potential. Vicky slicked gel against her right breast and swept the ultrasound paddle in small circles, pausing to click her mouse. Taking pictures? Kyanna couldn’t see the screen or Vicky’s face from her position flat on her back, but her mind whirred like an electric mixer.

  In a few minutes, Vicky handed her some tissues.

  “How soon will I hear something?” Kyanna heard the quiver in her voice. She stared down, fiddling with the ties on the gown.

  “The radiologist will read these within a day or two and send his report to your doctor. Depending on the results, you might hear from your physician’s office by Monday.”

  Depending on the results. Kyanna wondered if hearing nothing should be considered a portent of bad news or good news. Before she could form a question, Vicky led her back to the room where her clothes and handbag waited.

  After dressing, Kyanna sank onto the plastic chair. Flushed cheeks burned her palms as she rested her face in her hands.

  Don’t let it be cancer.

  Even thinking the word sent her stomach spiraling into her throat. Cancer had already taken so much from her. While her parents were killed when her father’s small aircraft crashed, her grandparents died from blood and skin cancer. Watching them suffer treatments gave her reason to despise the ugly c-word. As if the heinous chemo and radiation wasn’t enough, she learned to fear the painful demise.